Chapter 1

Chapter

One

F ieran Laesornysh threw himself into a front flip, landing lightly on the iron walkway that ran along the spine of the Escarlish airship. This high up, his lungs burned with the exertion of breathing the thin air, and he'd ditched his uniform jacket and PT shirt long ago, letting the cold air blast his bare skin.

The ocean spread in a blue-green ink broken only by the white slashes of the foaming waves. A cargo ship plying the waters appeared as nothing but a slim speck, visible due to the white wake stretching behind it.

A faint vibration and gentle thuds came from behind him as his best friend and fellow half-elf Merrik landed his own flip.

Fieran spun to face Merrik again. Merrik, too, had ditched his shirt here in the privacy of the top of the airship. Merrik's short chestnut hair—more a brown with red highlights rather than Fieran's brilliant red—glinted in the morning sunlight.

Holding his hands before him as if he gripped the hilts of the swords he'd left at home when he'd joined the Escarlish Flying Corps, Fieran spun and parried an invisible enemy, dodging and ducking. Hints of his magic curled over his fingers, and he didn't try to fully hold it back. There was no one around but Merrik to see, and he held tightly enough to his control that he was in no danger of incinerating the airship beneath their feet.

Not that Fieran was likely to get into trouble for using his magic here. This particular airship captain had a case of hero-worship for Fieran's family—his dacha and Uncle Julien in particular—that could rival Pip's, if that was possible.

Merrik copied his movements, and for several minutes the two of them pantomimed a sword fight, slashing and parrying with their invisible swords.

Despite the crisp wind whipping past Fieran's face, the stench of smoke still clogged his nose and the taste of ash coated his tongue. No matter how hard he pushed himself in training, he couldn't quite seem to hold the memories at bay.

Memories of a nighttime attack and bombs falling on the innocent city of Bridgetown. The bodies he'd pulled from the rubble. The flag-draped coffins loaded onto the train with an accompanying honor guard as Fieran, his squadron, and the rest of Fort Linder stood by, saluting the fallen.

The feel of his magic crackling over Mongavarian airships and airmen moments before he let his magic consume canvas and iron, blood and bone, without discrimination. Without mercy.

Today you are Laesornysh.

That was what Fieran's dacha had stated, naming him not just with the last name he'd inherited but with the elven warrior title he'd now earned. A title meaning Death on the Wind in elvish.

Fieran felt the weight of those words now, five days later, just as much as he had the morning after the attack when his dacha had said them.

Thus the reason he was up here on the top of the airship, pushing his muscles, reflexes, and lung capacity to the brink. Growing up, he hadn't fully understood why his dacha, the famous elven warrior Prince Farrendel Laesornysh, would often exercise on top of the train as the family traveled from Treehaven, their estate in Escarland, to Ellonahshinel, the elven treetop palace in Tarenhiel.

Now Fieran understood all too well.

The nearly four days of travel had given him all too much time for contemplation. After riding across the Alliance Bridge in army trucks, Fieran, Merrik, the thirty-odd men of their squadron, Pip, and the other mechanics who had been sent with them had boarded an elven train at the station in Calafaren, which hadn't been damaged in the bombing. The nearly thirty-six-hour train trip took them north through Estyra, then east until they reached the port city of Ninthalor, where they boarded the Escarlish airship.

During their two-day flight after boarding the airship, Fieran had been afforded the run of the airship and courtesy well above what he should have, given that he was a newly minted first lieutenant. The airship's captain had even offered him a cabin in the officers' quarters, but Fieran had refused, instead bunking in a hammock among the gas balloons with his men. Both so that he wasn't quite so smothered by the captain and because sleeping among the balloons made it easier to sneak onto the top of the airship each morning.

Merrik dodged one of Fieran's imaginary swords just as a shaft of brilliant sunlight broke through the clouds along the horizon, shining so brightly off the metal walkway that Fieran had to squint. The next moment, Merrik grasped his wrist, pinning his arm between their chests as Merrik held his other hand poised as if holding the blade of a sword to Fieran's neck.

Fieran huffed a breath and held up his free hand in surrender. "I yield. But just so you know, the sun was in my eyes."

"I still won." Merrik stepped back, releasing him. "I always win when you are distracted. And you are rather distractable."

Fieran didn't have an argument for that. It was far too true.

Shading his eyes, he faced forward, the sun slightly off to his right as the airship traveled northeast. The cold breeze as the airship plied the sky prickled against his sweaty skin.

The coast of Kostaria was nothing but a smudge to their west while nothing but the ocean lay as far as they could see to the east.

Down below, the shapes of two islands came into view. Waves crashed into their rocky coasts while tall white lighthouses marked their highest points. On either side of the channel between them, gun emplacements guarded the vital waterway.

Beyond the islands, icebergs dotted the waters, forming a perilous maze. Despite this, the channel between the islands and the waters on either side were choked with fishing trawlers, cargo ships, and gray-painted iron warships. All the ships easily maneuvered between the icebergs, likely thanks to having a troll on board with ice magic.

Something any Mongavarian ships on their way to attack Dar Goranth wouldn't have.

Their airship continued on for long minutes more, the islands disappearing behind them .

"We are dropping lower." Merrik halted next to Fieran at the bow of the dirigible.

"Coming in toward Dar Goranth." Fieran pointed, squinting with the rays of the rising sun beaming warm against the right side of his face. "I think that smudge is Drogenvroh Island up ahead. Remember the last time we were here? That was a fun trip."

Merrik crossed his arms over his bare chest and eyed Fieran. "You gave your cousin Prince Rhohen a black eye."

"In my defense, he started with the insults and threw the first punch." Fieran gestured from himself toward the island ahead. "What else was I supposed to do but punch back?"

"Be the more mature cousin and not fight him?" Merrik waved with one of his hands without uncrossing his arms. "Just a suggestion."

Fieran shrugged, not fighting too hard against his grin. "We were in Kostaria. Not fighting is more insulting to Rhohen than fighting him."

"Uh-huh." Merrik's disapproving frown didn't waver. "You cannot claim complete innocence in that incident. You made faces at him all through the formal treaty signing ceremony."

Well, there was that. Fieran might have done a bit of the provoking. But silly faces trying to make his cousin stop scowling so darkly was a far cry from insulting one's mother and father.

Not that Rhohen had truly meant what he'd said. Nor had he gotten off easy once his parents had heard what he'd said and done.

"I probably should have paid more attention to that treaty ceremony." Fieran shrugged, peering into the morning mists to make out the craggy cliffs of Drogenvroh Island's southern point coming into view. "It's the reason we're going to be stationed here, after all."

About forty years ago when the naval base at Dar Goranth was coming into more importance, Escarland and Kostaria had signed a treaty giving Escarland not just access to the Kostarian base, but also the ability to treat it as their own—for a certain amount of funding.

While the Hydalla River was deep enough for ocean-going vessels, and Escarland had a naval base outside of the river city of Ayre, it was a long treacherous trip up the river past miles of Mongavarian shoreline. That treaty forty years ago made Dar Goranth the primary station for Escarland's seaborne navy.

The other part of that treaty had been a deeper integration of the various branches of the armed forces of the Alliance Kingdoms. Escarlish citizens could serve in the Kostarian navy, something that was necessary since Escarland had the population and Kostaria had the fleet in need of sailors. While Kostaria had a few airships, Escarland and Tarenhiel had far more, so Kostarian citizens could serve on one of Escarland's airships.

Since Kostaria's army had so far forgone starting a Flying Corps in favor of focusing on their navy, Escarland's and Tarenhiel's Flying Corps would need to protect the skies and airships of all three kingdoms.

Merrik gave a grunt of assent, leaning back slightly to balance as the airship drifted more steeply downward. "If Prince Rhohen is there now, you will need to be more polite. Your dacha will not be there for me to fetch."

"Do you think Rhohen will be at Dar Goranth? I haven't heard if he's left Osmana or not." Fieran planted his feet wider against the downward trajectory of the airship. He and Merrik weren't supposed to be up there, especially without safety ropes, while the airship was coming in for a landing.

The island looming on the horizon was a gray-and-green mass rising from the crashing waves of the ocean. A white lighthouse perched on the point while piles of slushy snow coated the shadows in the crags and hollows.

"Since joining the army, you have had to get your information from the press instead of your parents." Merrik rolled his shoulders and finally uncrossed his arms enough to gesture ahead of them. "Prince Rhohen is the only warrior with a form of the magic of the ancient kings that Kostaria has. They aren't going to advertise his whereabouts any more than Escarland tries to advertise yours."

Good point. Fieran had assumed Rhohen would be at Osmana, shielding that city from attack.

Now that he thought about it, Osmana was in little danger, protected by the craggy peaks and buffeting winds of the Kostarian mountains.

But Dar Goranth lay outside of the magical Wall Fieran's dacha had created with help from Uncle Rharreth and Uncle Weylind. For months, everyone had assumed it would be the location of Mongavaria's first strike in this war. Uncle Rharreth and Rhohen had probably been camped out here for the past few months, preparing to ward off an attack if it came.

But Uncle Rharreth couldn't stay in Dar Goranth for long. He had a kingdom to run. Yet he couldn't leave Rhohen here alone. While Rhohen was numerically the same age as Fieran—eight months younger, if one wanted to be technical about it—Fieran had aged faster thanks to having a short-lived human for a parent instead of two longer-lived parents as Rhohen had. Rhohen was an adult, barely, still coming into the full strength and control of his power. He couldn't be turned loose to protect Dar Goranth on his own .

While Mongavaria had chosen to strike a symbolic blow by attacking Fort Linder, Bridgetown, and Calafaren as their opening move of the war, the hammer blow would likely fall on Dar Goranth next. Rhohen might be good enough for a just-in-case measure, but they needed someone trained to defend the naval base now that the war had begun.

Fieran heaved a sigh, his breath misting slightly before his face. "Fine. I'll do my best not to antagonize Rhohen. But I can't promise more than that. My very presence seems to rile him."

"True. Then again, his presence riles you, so it is mutual." Merrik eyed Fieran in that way that had Fieran squirming. "Keep in mind, you could be court-martialed now for fighting outside of a structured fighting bout, even here on a Kostarian base where their rules about fists flying are laxer than Escarland's. Not to mention, both you and Rhohen have come into your magic since then. You could level the base if either of you lose control."

Another good point. Merrik was annoyingly skilled at those. There could be actual consequences this time if Fieran gave in to the temptation to wipe the pouty smirk off Rhohen's face.

"Like I said, I'll do my best." Fieran turned away from the sight before them to reach for his shirt where he'd left it tucked into the dogging wheel for the hatch to enter the dirigible. "I can't make promises for what Rhohen will do."

"That is what worries me." Merrik claimed his own shirt, tugging it over his head.

Once they were both dressed in their drab olive-green uniform shirts—identical except that the bar on each of Fieran's shoulders glinted silver instead of bronze, as did the wings pinned to his chest—Fieran stepped toward the side of the airship instead of the hatch .

There, a long metal ladder clung to the side of the dirigible, curving to fit the shape. The ladder was supposed to be used for maintenance of the dirigible's outer skin while at dock.

But it seemed like a far faster way down than taking the network of ladders and catwalks inside the dirigible that wove around and between the inner balloons, which held the helium keeping the airship aloft.

Merrik heaved yet another sigh. "Really?"

"Yep." Fieran grabbed either side of the ladder as if to climb down, then pressed his boots on either side of the ladder as well. With one last smirk at Merrik, Fieran loosened his fingers just enough that gravity sent him sliding down the ladder rather than climbing it.

The cold wind raked through his hair and tugged at his clothes. The rush of falling and the exhilaration of the sea spreading out so far below bubbled up inside him so that he couldn't help but give a whoop. The endless ocean was a bit like the trackless sky. Dangerous. Beautiful. Something to be both loved and feared in equal measures.

Soon he would get back in a flyer and feel this same heady thrill each time he took to the sky. Five days without flying was far too long.

All too soon, he had to tighten his grip with both hands and feet, slowing himself just enough that he landed lightly on the metal platform at the top of the gondola. He stepped aside, giving Merrik room to land just as easily, their footfalls so light that one of the Escarlish airmen bustling farther along the catwalk didn't even glance their way.

Fieran led the way through a hatch onto the walk that surrounded the outside of the gondola, not quite ready to give up the fresh air for the narrow passages inside.

As he dropped down another level onto a lower walk, he found Tiny, the half-troll, half-human pilot, hunched over the rail near the stern. Despite being perfectly fine while flying an aeroplane, Tiny got horribly airsick on airships. He'd learned the hard way to vomit over the stern instead of into the wind on the bow.

Tiny pushed away from the rail, making a valiant effort to straighten and give Fieran a proper salute, despite the green cast to his gray skin.

Fieran suppressed his sigh and quickly saluted back. Was it bad that he was already regretting his promotion? For those golden weeks of training, he had been just one of the guys for the first time in his life. Not a prince. Not the son of famous parents. Not someone to be treated as anything special.

Now he was back to the way things had always been. The weight of a title—or of command in this case—rested on his shoulders and separated him from others.

At least the gulf between a first lieutenant and second lieutenant wasn't that wide. They were all officers. He could maintain his friendships, even if his friends had to salute him occasionally.

As soon as his salute was acknowledged, Tiny returned to his spot gripping the rail.

Fieran gave him a pat on the back as he edged by. "Hang in there, Tiny. We're almost to Dar Goranth and solid ground."

Tiny just gave a miserable nod in return.

Merrik hurried past Tiny as well, giving him a sympathetic look but staying well clear.

A few yards past Tiny, Fieran and Merrik reached the door to the officers' mess, which was on the other side of the airship's kitchens from the mess for the noncommissioned airmen .

Inside, the thirty-odd men remaining in his squadron after training and the battle in the skies over Bridgetown had gathered around the various tables. A few plates were piled in the center of some of the tables while several flyboys were finishing the last bites of their breakfasts.

At least the mess was considered neutral territory. No saluting of officers or coming to attention required. Meals would be chaos if everyone had to spring to their feet and salute every time a superior officer walked in.

Fieran headed for the table near the bank of portholes where his friends had gathered. Pretty Face—the disgraced seventh son of an equally disgraced Escarlish nobleman—lounged on the bench, his legs stretched out underneath the table. Across the table from him, blond-haired, beanpole-thin Elijah Lake scowled and tried to find a spot to stick his own equally long legs without bumping into Pretty Face.

Beside him, Stickyfingers, their resident ex-thief, had a set of lockpicks and a padlock in his hands, and he appeared to be teaching Pip—their half-dwarf, half-elf female mechanic—how to pick locks. She had a second padlock and another pair of picks in her hands as she followed Sticky's instructions.

"Why are you learning to pick locks?" Fieran halted beside the table, peering over Pip's shoulder. "You can just move the metal with your magic and unlock any lock that way."

"Because it's fascinating." Her dark brown curls tumbling over her shoulders, Pip gave a shrug, swiveling and craning her neck to glance up at him. "You never know when you might want to be more subtle than just tearing apart a lock with magic."

Fieran raised his eyebrows at Stickyfingers. "You're a bad influence on the squadron. "

"Says the elf who was wandering about on top of the airship a moment ago." Stickyfingers shrugged, then held up a lockpick and padlock. "I can always teach you after Pip is done."

Fieran shook his head, waving the offer away. "No need. I already know."

Stickyfingers squinted up at him, his brow furrowing beneath his shock of brown hair. "You do? But you're a prince. And…not…"

"Delinquent? Felonious?" Pretty Face supplied.

Sticky flexed his fingers on the padlock like he was contemplating chucking it at Pretty Face's head.

"My Uncle Edmund taught me." Fieran needed to get the focus back on the conversation before things devolved.

"Ah." Stickyfingers nodded.

That was all the explanation needed. Fieran's uncle Edmund was the top spymaster of Escarland. He was well-versed in the more shady side of life.

Fieran's dacha and mama had made the mistake of letting Uncle Edmund and Aunt Jalissa watch Fieran, Adry, and Louise when Ellie was born. The three of them had gotten an education Dacha hadn't been expecting. Mama had just laughed.

Pip's padlock clicked open. She grimaced down at it. "Simple locks are ridiculously easy to pick. It's worrisome."

Stickyfingers grinned, showing off his crooked and stained teeth. "Told you."

"Anyway, if the lesson in the more dubious arts is over, we're nearing Dar Goranth." Fieran gestured toward a door set between two of the portholes, which led onto the lower catwalk around the gondola. "You'll get a good look at it from the catwalk."

Chairs scraped, then a stampede rushed for the door. For many of the men in the squadron, this was their first time ever leaving Escarland, except for brief visits to Calafaren across the Alliance Bridge, much less their first time seeing Kostaria.

Fieran stayed at Pip's back, protecting her from being jostled in the rush for the door. Merrik also waited, though Lije, Pretty Face, and Stickyfingers joined the chaos headed for the door, the latter stuffing padlocks and lockpicks back into his pockets as he went.

Once the others were outside and shoving for positions along the rail, Fieran held out a hand to Pip. "Ready for your first look at Dar Goranth?"

"Yep. I'm sure it's impressive." Pip took his hand and let him pull her to her feet, releasing his fingers as soon as she was standing. Her head didn't even come up to Fieran's shoulder, and he found himself looking down at her dark brown hair. She tilted her head to grin up at him as she stepped past him. "I need to take lots of notes to describe it in my next letter home. My muka has a great interest in troll architecture."

That made sense, given that Pip's mother was a dwarf. While both trolls and dwarves had the ability to manipulate stone with their magic, the trolls used their magic directly on the stone while the dwarves used their magic in conjunction with tools to craft the stone.

"Hopefully you'll be able to see Osmana someday." Fieran followed her with Merrik trailing after them. "Even I find Khagniorth Stronghold quite impressive, and I'm not normally one to note architecture."

"Perhaps someday." Pip shrugged. "It's hard to imagine I'd travel that far. Until now, I've never been to Kostaria."

"Well, I've never been to the dwarven mountains." Fieran hurried a step ahead and opened the door for her. A blast of frigid air slammed into him, cutting even colder than it had when he'd been on top of the airship and exercising away his fidgets.

As Pip stepped outside, she rubbed her arms. "Brr. It's cold."

"It's still winter in Kostaria." Fieran strolled next to her along the catwalk to the end of the line of flyboys, heading for the bow.

"I might have to stock up on warmer gear at whatever Dar Goranth has for a commissary." Pip shivered again as she claimed a spot free of flyboys against the railing. She wore the shirt and coveralls the army provided, but no thick overcoat.

Fieran had a green, army-issue wool overcoat in his rucksack, but he hadn't bothered bringing it with him that morning. He'd pull off his shirt and give that to her, but he wasn't sure if she'd laugh or get embarrassed by that. Besides, his shirt was just a hint sticky with his sweat, even though he'd taken the time to let the wind dry his sweat before putting it on. It was too gross to give to her.

He leaned against the rail beside her. "I guess I'll just have to provide a windbreak."

"That works." Pip tucked herself closer to him, not quite touching but nearly so.

Merrik took the spot on Pip's other side, creating even more of a buffer from the wind, though Merrik left more space between himself and Pip than Fieran had.

As they stood there, chilled in the sea breezes, the airship drifted past the long, green island with stretches of rocky cliffs bordering the crashing waves. A small sandy cove came into view far to the left, and a few wooden docks reached into the waters while what looked like a small collection of stone buildings were tucked into the rolling green hills rising from the water.

The airship eased to starboard, paralleling the coast for several minutes before it worked its way around a jutting, rocky headland with a squat, stone lighthouse perched on the point.

The headland opened to a large bay with long sea grass rolling down to the white-capped waves. The points on either side sported gun emplacements and bristling fortifications overlooking both the harbor and the ocean.

Two airships, one flying Kostaria's flag, the other Escarland's, hovered over the gun emplacements.

At the bow of their airship, a signal corpsman waved a series of flags. He must be sending out today's recognition code and their airship's information for a few moments later, their airship was allowed to proceed into the harbor.

To one side of the harbor, the commercial port bustled with large ironclad merchant vessels. Some had both smokestacks and masts for sails rising from the deck while others lacked smokestacks entirely and must be magically powered. Both troll and human workers toiled along the quays, unloading and loading the various ships carrying vital supplies for the war.

Filling the rest of the vast harbor, the Dar Goranth Naval Base stretched into all the fingers of the bay. The water was filled with gray ships of all sizes—from smaller cruisers to the mighty dreadnoughts bristling with turrets sporting guns as long and wide as trees. The ships flew a variety of the three flags of the Alliance, though Kostaria's flag dominated.

As the elves hadn't taken to iron ships all that well and Escarland was essentially landlocked except for the Hydalla River seaway, Kostaria had to be the Alliance Kingdom to rule the waves and protect the trade routes, and they had taken to the role with alacrity.

Airships drifted over the harbor, casting long black shadows on the water and the teeming wharves below. On the airships, Tarenhiel's flag was better represented, though plenty flew the insignia for Kostaria or Escarland.

Fieran leaned farther over the rail, but at this angle he couldn't make out the names painted on the sides of either the surface ships or airships.

"Do you think your cousins are in port?" Merrik's murmur was too low for the others to hear, except for Pip huddled between them.

"I don't know. It's possible." Fieran shrugged, still searching the warships below. "It would be nice to have a few cousins who actually like me here."

"It would be nice to have some backup in case you get in a brawl with your other cousin," Merrik grumbled as he, too, peered down at the ships below.

"That sounds ominous." Pip stopped gawking at the harbor long enough to eye Fieran.

"Nothing to worry about." Fieran shot her a grin.

Merrik snorted but he didn't comment as they studied the harbor stretching below them.

The sound of pipes trilled from the various ships along with the shouts of orders. The whole harbor rang with the clangs from the shipyard where crews swarmed over three unfinished hulls in dry docks. More warships in various stages of construction floated at their slips.

As the airship passed over the dry docks, Pip straightened, then leaned farther over the rail. "I sense dwarven magic. I think there are dwarf work crews building those dreadnoughts. "

Fieran let a little trickle of his own magic wind around his fingers, and his magical senses heightened.

There was so much magic present in Dar Goranth, from troll magic laced all through the cliffs ahead of them to the magical power cells fueling the airships and the dreadnoughts in the harbor that Fieran struggled to pick out the faint, foreign magic emanating from below. It didn't feel exactly like Pip's. Then again, Pip might have dwarven iron magic, but she used her magic the way an elf would.

Stickyfingers leaned farther out, squinting. "Real dwarves? I'd like to see them! Not that you aren't a real dwarf, Pip. But…you know what I mean."

Pip rolled her eyes. "Lije, give Sticky a smack upside the head for me."

Lije grinned and did as asked, smacking the back of Sticky's head lightly.

"For once it wasn't me saying something inappropriate." Pretty Face smirked, lounging more languidly against the railing.

Lije reached over and gave him a smack on the back of the head too.

Pretty Face tried to duck but not fast enough. He gave an exaggerated wince. "What was that for?"

"A preemptive smack. I'm sure you'll deserve one eventually."

"Preemptive. That's a rather big word. I didn't know you knew that kind of vocabulary."

Lije huffed. "There you go. And yes, I've been working to expand my vocabulary. I'm a lieutenant now. I need to sound like one."

Fieran shook his head and tuned them out as he tipped his head to Pip. "Are the dwarves from your muka's kingdom or one of the others? "

"I don't know. I'll find out when I have the chance to speak with them." Pip's gaze remained locked on the working dwarves until the dry docks passed from sight beneath the airship.

Ahead, tall, craggy cliffs formed the back wall of the Dar Goranth base, its face pockmarked with windows and doors that opened onto balconies formed out of the cliff. The entire cliff was a warren of passages and rooms in true troll fashion. Why live on a mountain when one could live in it?

Three flagpoles stood in a circle of cleared space among the buildings just before the cliffs. Here the Kostarian gray-and-white banner flapped higher and in the center while the Tarenhieli and Escarlish flags were relegated to either side.

One side of the cliffs had a series of staggered protrusions of stone, and two airships were already at dock, tied in the shelter of the cliffs where they were protected from the buffeting winds.

At the top of the cliffs, a grassy field spread out long and straight. The base's airfield. A few knolls rose from the otherwise flat top, with dark mouths of openings leading into the cliffs.

Dar Goranth. The mighty bastion of the Kostarian Navy amid the storm-tossed northern ocean. Fieran's first post and first command. Time to prove himself all over again.